BANCROFT    LIBRARY 


URANIA: 


A    RHYMED    LESSON 

BY 

OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 


PRONOUNCED    BEFORE    THE    MERCANTILE    LIBRARY    ASSOCIATION, 
OCTOBER  14,   1846. 


BOSTON: 

WILLIAM    D.    TICKNOR    &    COMPANY. 

MDCCCXLVI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846,  by 

WILLIAM  D.  TICKNOR  AND  COMPANY, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


BOSTON: 

PRINTED  BY    FREEMAN   AND  BOI.LES, 
DEVONSHIRE   STREET. 


POEM, 


YES,  dear  Enchantress,  wandering  far  and  long, 
In  realms  unperfumed  by  the  breath  of  song, 
Where  flowers  ill  flavored  shed  their  sweets  around, 
And  bitterest  roots  invade  the  ungenial  ground, 
Whose  gems  are  crystals  from  the  Epsom  mine, 
Whose  vineyards  flow  with  antimonial  wine, 
Whose  gates  admit  no  mirthful  feature  in, 
Save  one  gaunt  mocker,  the  Sardonic  grin, 
Whose  pangs  are  real,  not  the  woes  of  rhyme 
That  blue-eyed  misses  warble  out  of  time  ; 
Truant,  not  recreant  to  thy  sacred  claim, 
Older  by  reckoning,  but  in  heart  the  same, 
Freed  for  a  moment  from  the  chains  of  toil, 
I  tread  once  more  thy  consecrated  soil ; 
Here  at  thy  feet  my  old  allegiance  own 
Thy  subject  still,  and  loyal  to  thy  throne ! 


My  dazzled  glance  explores  the  crowded  hall ; 
Alas,  how  vain  to  hope  the  smiles  of  all ! 
I  know  my  audience  ;  all  the  gay  and  young 
Love  the  light  antics  of  a  playful  tongue, 
And  these,  remembering  some  expansive  line 
My  lips  let  loose  among  the  nuts  and  wine, 
Are  all  impatience  till  the  opening  pun 
Proclaims  the  witty  shamfight  is  begun. 
Two  fifths  at  least,  if  not  the  total  half, 
Have  come  infuriate  for  an  earthquake  laugh  ; 
I  know  full  well  what  alderman  has  tied 
His  red  bandanna  tight  about  his  side  ; 
I  see  the  mother,  who,  aware  that  boys 
Perform  their  laughter  with  superfluous  noise, 
Beside  her  kerchief,  brought  an  extra  one 
To  stop  the  explosions  of  her  bursting  son  ; 
I  know  a  tailor,  once  a  friend  of  mine, 
Expects  great  doings  in  the  button  line  ;  — 
For  mirth's  concussions  rip  the  outward  case 
And  plant  the  stitches  in  a  tenderer  place  ;  — 
I  know  my  audience  ;  these  shall  have  their  due, 
A  smile  awaits  them  ere  my  song  is  through  ! 

I  know  myself ;  not  servile  for  applause, 
My  Muse  permits  no  deprecating  clause  ; 
Modest  or  vain,  she  will  not  be  denied 
One  bold  confession,  due  to  honest  pride. 
And  well  she  knows,  the  drooping  veil  of  song 
Shall  save  her  boldness  from  the  caviller's  wrong  ; 


Her  sweeter  voice  the  Heavenly  Maid  imparts 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  our  aching  hearts  ; 
For  this,  a  suppliant,  captive,  prostrate,  bound, 
She  kneels  imploring  at  the  feet  of  sound  ; 
For  this,  convulsed  in  thought's  maternal  pains, 
She  loads  her  arms  with  rhyme's  resounding  chains ; 
Faint  though  the  music  of  her  fetters  be, 
It  lends  one  charm  ;  her  lips  are  ever  free  ! 

Think  not  I  come,  in  manhood's  fiery  noon, 
To  steal  his  laurels  from  the  stage  buffoon  ; 
His  sword  of  lath  the  harlequin  may  wield  ; 
Behold  the  star  upon  my  lifted  shield  ! 
Though  the  just  critic  pass  my  humble  name, 
And  sweeter  lips  have  drained  the  cup  of  fame, 
While  my  gay  stanza  pleased  the  banquet's  lords, 
The  soul  within  was  tuned  to  deeper  chords  ! 
Say,  shall  my  arms,  in  other  conflicts  taught 
To  swing  aloft  the  ponderous  mace  of  thought, 
Lift,  in  obedience  to  a  school-girl's  law, 
Mirth's  tinsel  wand  or  laughter's  tickling  straw  ? 
Say,  shall  I  wound  with  satire's  rankling  spear 
The  pure,  warm  hearts  that  bid  me  welcome  here  ? 
No  !  while  I  wander  through  the  land  of  dreams 
To  strive  with  great  and  play  with  trifling  themes, 
Let  some  kind  meaning  fill  the  varied  line  ; 
You  have  your  judgment ;  will  you  trust  to  mine  ? 


BETWEEN  two  breaths  what  crowded  mysteries  lie,  — 
The  first  short  gasp,  the  last  and  long-drawn  sigh ! 
Like  phantoms  painted  on  the  magic  slide, 
Forth  from  the  darkness  of  the  past  we  glide, 
As  living  shadows  for  a  moment  seen 
In  airy  pageant  on  the  eternal  screen, 
Traced  by  a  ray  from  one  unchanging  flame, 
Then  seek  the  dust  and  stillness  whence  we  came. 

But  whence  and  why,  our  trembling  souls  inquire, 
Caught  these  dim  visions  their  awakening  fire  ? 

0  who  forgets,  when  first  the  piercing  thought 
Through  childhood's  musings  found  its  way  unsought, 

1  AM.     I  LIVE.     The  mystery  and  the  fear 

When  the  dread  question  —  WHAT  HAS  BROUGHT  ME  HERE  ? 
Burst  through  life's  twilight,  as  before  the  sun 
Roll  the  deep  thunders  of  the  morning  gun  ! 

Are  angel  faces  silent  and  serene 
Bent  on  the  conflicts  of  this  little  scene, 
Whose  dreamlike  efforts,  whose  unreal  strife 
Are  but  the  preludes  to  a  larger  life  ? 

Or  does  life's  summer  see  the  end  of  all, 
These  leaves  of  being  mouldering  as  they  fall, 


As  the  old  poet  vaguely  used  to  deem, 
As  WESLEY  questioned  in  his  youthful  dream  ?  (*) 
O  could  such  mockery  reach  our  souls  indeed, 
Give  back  the  Pharaohs'  or  the  Athenian's  creed  ; 
Better  than  this  a  Heaven  of  man's  device,  — 
The  Indian's  sports,  the  Moslem's  paradise  ! 

Or  is  our  being's  only  end  and  aim 
To  add  new  glories  to  our  Maker's  name, 
As  the  poor  insect,  shrivelling  in  the  blaze, 
Lends  a  faint  sparkle  to  its  streaming  rays  ? 
Does  earth  send  upwards  to  the  Eternal's  ear 
The  mingled  discords  of  her  jarring  sphere 
To  swell  his  anthem,  while  Creation  rings 
With  notes  of  anguish  from  its  shattered  strings  ? 
Is  it  for  this  the  immortal  Artist  means 
These  conscious,  throbbing,  agonized  machines  ? 

Dark  is  the  soul  whose  sullen  creed  can  bind 
In  chains  like  these  the  all-embracing  mind  ; 
No  !  two-faced  bigot,  thou  dost  ill  reprove 
The  sensual,  selfish,  yet  benignant  Jove, 
And  praise  a  tyrant  throned  in  lonely  pride, 
Who  loves  himself,  and  cares  for  nought  beside  ; 
Who  gave  thee,  summoned  from  primeval  night, 
A  thousand  laws,  and  not  a  single  right ; 
A  heart  to  feel  and  quivering  nerves  to  thrill, 
The  sense  of  wrong,  the  death-defying  will ; 


Who  girt  thy  senses  with  this  goodly  frame, 
Its  earthly  glories  and  its  orbs  of  flame, 
Not  for  thyself,  unworthy  of  a  thought, 
Poor  helpless  victim  of  a  life  unsought, 
But  all  for  him,  unchanging  and  supreme, 
The  heartless  centre  of  thy  frozen  scheme  ! 

Trust  not  the  teacher  with  his  lying  scroll, 
Who  tears  the  charter  of  thy  shuddering  soul ; 
The  God  of  love,  who  gave  the  life  that  warms 
All  breathing  dust  in  all  its  varied  forms, 
Asks  not  the  tribute  of  a  world  like  this 
To  fill  the  measure  of  his  perfect  bliss. 
Though  winged  with  life  through  all  its  radiant  shores, 
Creation  flowed  with  unexhausted  stores 
Cherub  and  seraph  had  not  yet  enjoyed  ; 
For  this  he  called  thee  from  the  quickening  void  ! 
Nor  this  alone  ;  a  larger  gift  was  thine, 
A  mightier  purpose  swelled  his  vast  design  ; 
Thought ;  conscience  ;  will ;  to  make  them  all  thine  own 
He  rent  a  pillar  from  the  eternal  throne  ! 

Made  in  his  image,  thou  must  nobly  dare 
The  thorny  crown  of  sovereignty  to  share  ; 
With  eye  uplifted  it  is  thine  to  view 
From  thine  own  centre,  Heaven's  o'erarching  blue  ; 
So  round  thy  heart  a  beaming  circle  lies 
No  fiend  can  blot,  no  hypocrite  disguise, 


From  all  its  orbs  one  cheering  voice  is  heard, 
Full  to  thine  ear  it  bears  the  Father's  word, 
Now,  as  in  Eden  where  his  first-born  trod  : 
"  Seek  thine  own  welfare,  true  to  man  and  God  !  " 

Think  not  too  meanly  of  thy  low  estate  ; 
Thou  hast  a  choice  ;  to  choose  is  to  create  ! 
Remember  whose  the  sacred  lips  that  tell, 
Angels  approve  thee  when  thy  choice  is  well ; 
Remember,  One,  a  judge  of  righteous  men, 
Swore  to  spare  Sodom  if  she  held  but  ten  ! 
Use  well  the  freedom  which  thy  Master  gave, 
(Think'st  thou  that  Heaven  can  tolerate  a  slave  ?) 
And  He  who  made  thee  to  be  just  and  true 
Will  bless  thee,  love  thee,  —  ay,  respect  thee  too  ! 

Nature  has  placed  thee  on  a  changeful  tide, 
To  breast  its  waves,  but  not  without  a  guide  ; 
Yet,  as  the  needle  will  forget  its  aim, 
Jarred  by  the  fury  of  the  electric  flame, 
As  the  true  current  it  will  falsely  feel, 
Warped  from  its  axis  by  a  freight  of  steel ; 
So  will  thy  CONSCIENCE  lose  its  balanced  truth 
If  passion's  lightning  fall  upon  thy  youth  ; 
So  the  pure  impulse  quit  its  sacred  hold, 
Girt  round  too  deeply  with  magnetic  gold. 

Go  to  yon  tower,  where  busy  science  plies 
Her  vast  antennae,  feeling  through  the  skies  ; 
That  little  vernier  on  whose  slender  lines 
The  midnight  taper  trembles  as  it  shines, 
2 


10 


A  silent  index,  tracks  the  planets'  march 
In  all  their  wanderings  through  the  ethereal  arch, 
Tells  through  the  mist  where  dazzled  Mercury  burns, 
And  marks  the  spot  where  Uranus  returns. 
So,  till  by  wrong  or  negligence  effaced, 
The  living  index  which  thy  Maker  traced 
Repeats  the  line  each  starry  Virtue  draws 
Through  the  wide  circuit  of  creation's  laws  ; 
Still  tracks  unchanged  the  everlasting  ray 
Where  the  dark  shadows  of  temptation  stray  ; 
But,  once  defaced,  forgets  the  orbs  of  light, 
And  leaves  thee  wandering  o'er  the  expanse  of  night ! 

"  What  is  thy  creed  ?  "  a  hundred  lips  inquire  ; 
"  Thou  seekest  God  beneath  what  Christian  spire  ?  " 
Nor  ask  they  idly,  for  uncounted  lies 
Float  upward  on  the  smoke  of  sacrifice  ; 
When  man's  first  incense  rose  above  the  plain, 
Of  earth's  two  altars  one  was  built  by  Cain  ! 

Uncursed  by  doubt,  our  earliest  creed  we  take  ; 
We  love  the  precepts  for  the  teacher's  sake  ; 
The  simple  lessons  which  the  nursery  taught 
Fell  soft  and  stainless  on  the  buds  of  thought, 
And  the  full  blossom  owes  its  fairest  hue 
To  those  sweet  tear-drops  of  affection's  dew. 

Too  oft  the  light  that  led  our  earlier  hours 
Fades  with  the  perfume  of  our  cradle  flowers, 
The  clear,  cold  question  chills  to  frozen  doubt ; 
Tired  of  beliefs,  we  dread  to  live  without ; 


11 


O  then,  if  reason  waver  at  thy  side, 
Let  humbler  memory  be  thy  gentle  guide, 
Go  to  thy  birth-place,  and,  if  faith  was  there, 
Repeat  thy  father's  creed,  thy  mother's  prayer  ! 

Faith  loves  to  lean  on  time's  destroying  arm, 
And  age,  like  distance,  lends  a  double  charm  ; 
In  dim  cathedrals,  dark  with  vaulted  gloom, 
What  holy  awe  invests  the  saintly  tomb  ! 
There  pride  will  bow,  and  anxious  care  expand, 
And  creeping  avarice  come  with  open  hand  ; 
The  gay  can  weep,  the  impious  can  adore, 
From  morn's  first  glimmerings  on  the  chancel  floor 
Till  dying  sunset  shed  his  crimson  stains 
Through  the  faint  halos  of  the  irised  panes. 

Yet  there  are  graves,  whose  rudely  shapen  sod 
Bears  the  fresh  footprints  where  the  sexton  trod  ; 
Graves  where  the  verdure  has  not  dared  to  shoot, 
Where  the  chance  wildflower  has  not  fixed  its  root, 
Whose  slumbering  tenants,  dead  without  a  name, 
The  eternal  record  shall  at  length  proclaim 
Pure  as  the  holiest  in  the  long  array 
Of  hooded,  mitred,  or  tiaraed  clay  ! 

Come,  seek  the  air  ;  some  pictures  we  may  gain, 
Whose  passing  shadows  shall  not  be  in  vain  ; 
Not  from  the  scenes  that  crowd  the  stranger's  soil, 
Not  from  our  own  amidst  the  stir  of  toil, 


12 


But  when  the  Sabbath  brings  its  kind  release, 
And  care  lies  slumbering  on  the  lap  of  peace. 

The  air  is  hushed  ;  the  street  is  holy  ground  ; 
Hark  !     The  sweet  bells  renew  their  welcome  sound  ; 
As  one  by  one  awakes  each  silent  tongue, 
It  tells  the  turret  whence  its  voice  is  flung.  (2) 

The  Chapel,  last  of  sublunary  things 
That  shocks  our  echoes  with  the  name  of  Kings, 
Whose  bell,  just  glistening  from  the  font  and  forge, 
Rolled  its  proud  requiem  for  the  second  George, 
Solemn  and  swelling,  as  of  old  it  rang, 
Flings  to  the  wind  its  deep,  sonorous  clang  ;  — 
The  simpler  pile,  that,  mindful  of  the  hour 
When  Howe's  artillery  shook  its  half-built  tower, 
Wears  on  its  bosom,  as  a  bride  might  do, 
The  iron  breastpin  which  the  "  Rebels"  threw, 
Wakes  the  sharp  echoes  with  the  quivering  thrill 
Of  keen  vibrations,  tremulous  and  shrill ;  — 
Aloft,  suspended  in  the  morning's  fire, 
Crash  the  vast  cymbals  from  the  Southern  spire ;  — 
The  Giant,  standing  by  the  elm-clad  green, 
His  white  lance  lifted  o'er  the  silent  scene, 
Whirling  in  air  his  brazen  goblet  round, 
Swings  from  its  brim  the  swollen  floods  of  sound  ;  — 
While,  sad  with  memories  of  the  olden  time, 
The  Northern  Minstrel  pours  her  tender  chime, 
Faint,  single  tones,  that  spell  their  ancient  song, 
But  tears  still  follow  as  they  breathe  along. 


13 


Child  of  the  soil,  whom  fortune  sends  to  range 
Where  man  and  nature,  faith  and  customs  change, 
Borne  in  thy  memory,  each  remembered  tone 
Mourns  on  the  winds  that  sigh  in  every  zone. 
When  Ceylon  sweeps  thee  with  her  perfumed  breeze 
Through  the  warm  billows  of  the  Indian  seas  ; 
When,  —  ship  and  shadow  blended  both  in  one,  — 
Flames  o'er  thy  mast  the  equatorial  sun, 
From  sparkling  midnight  to  refulgent  noon 
Thy  canvas  swelling  with  the  still  monsoon  ; 
When  through  thy  shrouds  the  wild  tornado  sings 
And  thy  poor  seabird  folds  her  tattered  wings, 
Oft  will  delusion  o'er  thy  senses  steal, 
And  airy  echoes  ring  the  Sabbath  peal ! 
Then,  dim  with  grateful  tears,  in  long  array 
Rise  the  fair  town,  the  island-studded  bay, 
Home,  with  its  smiling  board,  its  cheering  fire, 
The  half-choked  welcome  of  the  expecting  sire, 
The  mother's  kiss,  and,  still  if  aught  remain, 
Our  whispering  hearts  shall  aid  the  silent  strain.  — 

Ah,  let  the  dreamer  o'er  the  taffrail  lean 
To  muse  unheeded,  and  to  weep  unseen  ; 
Fear  not  the  tropic's  dews,  the  evening's  chills, 
His  heart  lies  warm  among  his  triple  hills  ! 

Turned  from  her  path  by  this  deceitful  gleam, 
My  wayward  fancy  half  forgets  her  theme  ; 
See  through  the  streets  that  slumbered  in  repose 
The  living  current  of  devotion  flows  ; 


14 


Its  varied  forms  in  one  harmonious  band, 
Age  leading  childhood  by  its  dimpled  hand, 
Want,  in  the  robe  whose  faded  edges  fall 
To  tell  of  rags  beneath  the  tartan  shawl, 
And  wealth,  in  silks  that,  fluttering  to  appear, 
Lift  the  deep  borders  of  the  proud  cashmere. 

See,  but  glance  briefly,  sorrow -worn  and  pale, 
Those  sunken  cheeks  beneath  the  widow's  veil ; 
Alone  she  wanders  where  with  him  she  trod, 
No  arm  to  stay  her,  but  she  leans  on  God. 

While  other  doublets  deviate  here  and  there, 
What  secret  handcuff  binds  that  pretty  pair  ? 
Compactest  couple  !  pressing  side  to  side,  — 
Ah,  the  white  bonnet  that  reveals  the  bride  ! 

By  the  white  neckcloth,  with  its  straitened  tie, 
The  sober  hat,  the  Sabbath-speaking  eye, 
Severe  and  smileless,  he  that  runs  may  read 
The  stern  disciple  of  Geneva's  creed  ; 
Decent  and  slow,  behold  his  solemn  march  ; 
Silent  he  enters  through  yon  crowded  arch. 

A  livelier  bearing  of  the  outward  man, 
The  light-hued  gloves,  the  undevout  rattan, 
Now  smartly  raised  or  half-profanely  twirled,  — 
A  bright,  fresh  twinkle  from  the  week-day  world, 
Tell  their  plain  story  ;  —  yes,  thine  eyes  behold 
A  cheerful  Christian  from  the  liberal  fold. 


15 


Down  the  chill  street  that  curves  in  gloomiest  shade, 
What  marks  betray  yon  solitary  maid  ? 
The  cheek's  red  rose,  that  speaks  of  balmier  air  ; 
The  Celtic  blackness  of  her  braided  hair  ;  (3) 
The  gilded  missal  in  her  kerchief  tied  ; 
Poor  Nora,  exile  from  Killarney's  side  ! 

Sister  in  toil,  though  born  of  colder  skies, 
That  left  their  azure  in  her  downcast  eyes, 
See  pallid  Margaret,  Labor's  patient  child, 
Scarce  weaned  from  home,  the  nursling  of  the  wild 
Where  white  Katahdin  o'er  the  horizon  shines, 
And  broad  Penobscot  dashes  through  the  pines  ; 
Still,  as  she  hastes,  her  careful  fingers  hold 
The  unfailing  hymn-book  in  its  cambric  fold. 
Six  days  at  drudgery's  heavy  wheel  she  stands, 
The  seventh  sweet  morning  folds  her  weary  hands  ; 
Yes,  child  of  suffering,  thou  may'st  well  be  sure 
He  who  ordained  the  Sabbath  loved  the  poor  ! 

This  weekly  picture  faithful  memory  draws, 
Nor  claims  the  noisy  tribute  of  applause ; 
Faint  is  the  glow  such  barren  hopes  can  lend, 
And  frail  the  line  that  asks  no  loftier  end. 

Trust  me,  kind  listener,  I  will  yet  beguile 
Thy  saddened  features  of  the  promised  smile  ; 
This  magic  mantle  thou  must  well  divide, 
It  has  its  sable,  and  its  ermine  side ; 
Yet,  ere  the  lining  of  the  robe  appears, 
Take  thou  in  silence,  what  I  give  in  tears. 


16 


Dear  listening  soul,  this  transitory  scene 
Of  murmuring  stillness,  busily  serene  ; 
This  solemn  pause,  the  breathing-space  of  man, 
The  halt  of  toil's  exhausted  caravan, 
Comes  sweet  with  music  to  thy  wearied  ear  ; 
Rise  with  its  anthems  to  a  holier  sphere  ! 

Deal  meekly,  gently,  with  the  hopes  that  guide 
The  lowliest  brother  straying  from  thy  side  ; 
If  right,  they  bid  thee  tremble  for  thine  own, 
If  wrong,  the  verdict  is  for  God  alone  ! 

What  though  the  champions  of  thy  faith  esteem 
The  sprinkled  fountain  or  baptismal  stream  ; 
Shall  jealous  passions  in  unseemly  strife 
Cross  their  dark  weapons  o'er  the  waves  of  life  ? 

Let  my  free  soul,  expanding  as  it  can, 
Leave  to  his  scheme  the  thoughtful  Puritan  ; 
But  Calvin's  dogma  shall  my  lips  deride  ? 
In  that  stern  faith  my  angel  Mary  died  ;  — 
Or  ask  if  mercy's  milder  creed  can  save, 
Sweet  sister,  risen  from  thy  new-made  grave  ? 

True,  the  harsh  founders  of  thy  church  reviled 
That  ancient  faith,  the  trust  of  Erin's  child  ; 
Must  thou  be  raking  in  the  crumbled  past 
For  racks  and  fagots  in  her  teeth  to  cast  ? 


17 


See  from  the  ashes  of  Helvetia's  pile 

The  whitened  skull  of  old  Servetus  smile  ! 

Round  her  young  heart  thy  "  Romish  Upas  "  threw 

Its  firm,  deep  fibres,  strengthening  as  she  grew ; 

Thy  sneering  voice  may  call  them  "  Popish  tricks,"  — 

Her  Latin  prayers,  her  dangling  crucifix,  — 

But  De  Profundis  blessed  her  father's  grave  ; 

That  "idol"  cross  her  dying  mother  gave  ! 

What  if  some  angel  looks  with  equal  eyes 
On  her  and  thee,  the  simple  and  the  wise, 
Writes  each  dark  fault  against  thy  brighter  creed, 
And  drops  a  tear  with  every  foolish  bead  ! 

Grieve,  as  thou  must,  o'er  history's  reeking  page  ; 
Blush  for  the  wrongs  that  stain  thy  happier  age  ; 
Strive  with  the  wanderer  from  the  better  path, 
Bearing  thy  message  meekly,  not  in  wrath  ; 
Weep  for  the  frail  that  err,  the  weak  that  fall, 
Have  thine  own  faith,  —  but  hope  and  pray  for  all ! 

Faith ;  Conscience ;  Love.     A  meaner  task  remains, 
And  humbler  thoughts  must  creep  in  lowlier  strains  ; 
Shalt  thou  be  honest  ?     Ask  the  worldly  schools, 
And  all  will  tell  thee  knaves  are  busier  fools  ; 
Prudent  ?     Industrious  ?     Let  not  modern  pens 
Instruct  "  Poor  Richard's  "  fellow-citizens. 

Be  firm  !  one  constant  element  in  luck 
Is  genuine,  solid,  old  Teutonic  pluck ; 
3 


See  yon  tall  shaft ;  it  felt  the  earthquake's  thrill, 
Clung  to  its  base,  and  greets  the  sunrise  still. 

Stick  to  your  aim  ;  the  mongrel's  hold  will  slip, 
But  only  crowbars  loose  the  bulldog's  grip  ; 
Small  as  he  looks,  the  jaw  that  never  yields, 
Drags  down  the  bellowing  monarch  of  the  fields  ! 

Yet  in  opinions  look  not  always  back  ; 
Your  wake  is  nothing,  mind  the  coming  track  ; 
Leave  what  you  've  done  for  what  you  have  to  do  ; 
Don't  be  "  consistent,"  but  be  simply  true. 

Don't  catch  the  fidgets ;  you  have  found  your  place 
Just  in  the  focus  of  a  nervous  race, 
Fretful  to  change,  and  rabid  to  discuss, 
Full  of  excitements,  always  in  a  fuss. 
Think  of  the  patriarchs ;  then  compare  as  men 
These  lean-cheeked  maniacs  of  the  tongue  and  pen  ! 
Run,  if  you  like,  but  try  to  keep  your  breath ; 
Work  like  a  man,  but  don't  be  worked  to  death  ; 
And  with  new  notions,  —  let  me  change  the  rule,  — 
Don 't  strike  the  iron  till  it 's  slightly  cool. 

Choose  well  your  set ;  our  feeble  nature  seeks 
The  aid  of  clubs,  the  countenance  of  cliques ; 
And  with  this  object  settle  first  of  all 
Your  weight  of  metal  and  your  size  of  ball. 


19 


Track  not  the  steps  of  such  as  hold  you  cheap,  — 
Too  mean  to  prize,  though  good  enough  to  keep. 
The  "  real,  genuine,  no-mistake  Tom  Thumbs  " 
Are  little  people  fed  on  great  men's  crumbs. 

Yet  keep  no  followers  of  that  hateful  brood 
That  basely  mingles  with  its  wholesome  food 
The  tumid  reptile,  which,  the  poet  said, 
Doth  wear  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head. 

If  the  wild  filly,  "  Progress,"  thou  would'st  ride, 
Have  young  companions  ever  at  thy  side ; 
But,  wouldst  thou  stride  the  staunch  old  mare,  "  Success," 
Go  with  thine  elders,  though  they  please  thee  less. 

Shun  such  as  lounge  through  afternoons  and  eves, 
And  on  thy  dial  write  "  Beware  of  thieves  !  " 
Felon  of  minutes,  never  taught  to  feel 
The  worth  of  treasures  which  thy  fingers  steal, 
Pick  my  left  pocket  of  its  silver  dime, 
But  spare  the  right,  —  it  holds  my  golden  time  ! 

Does  praise  delight  thee  ?  Choose  some  ultra  side  ; 
A  sure  old  recipe,  and  often  tried  ; 
Be  its  apostle,  congressman,  or  bard, 
Spokesman,  or  jokesman,  only  drive  it  hard ; 
But  know  the  forfeit  which  thy  choice  abides, 
For  on  two  wheels  the  poor  reformer  rides, 
One  black  with  epithets  the  anti  throws, 
One  white  with  flattery,  painted  by  the  pros. 


20 


Though  books  on  MANNERS  are  not  out  of  print, 
An  honest  tongue  may  drop  a  harmless  hint. 

Stop  not,  unthinking,  every  friend  you  meet 
To  spin  your  wordy  fabric  in  the  street ; 
While  you  are  emptying  your  colloquial  pack, 
The  fiend  Lumbago  jumps  upon  his  back. 

Nor  cloud  his  features  with  the  unwelcome  tale 
Of  how  he  looks,  if  haply  thin  and  pale ; 
Health  is  a  subject  for  his  child,  his  wife, 
And  the  rude  office  that  insures  his  life. 

Look  in  his  face,  to  meet  thy  neighbour's  soul, 
Not  on  his  garments  to  detect  a  hole  ; 
"  How  to  observe,"  is  what  thy  pages  show, 
Pride  of  thy  sex,  Miss  Harriet  Martineau ! 
O,  what  a  precious  book  the  one  would  be 
That  taught  observers  what  they  Jre  not  to  see  ! 

I  tell  in  verse,  —  Jt  were  better  done  in  prose,  — 
One  curious  trick  that  everybody  knows  ; 
Once  form  this  habit,  and  it 's  very  strange 
How  long  it  sticks,  how  hard  it  is  to  change. 
Two  friendly  people,  both  disposed  to  smile, 
Who  meet,  like  others,  every  little  while, 
Instead  of  passing  with  a  pleasant  bow, 
And  "  How  d'ye  do  ?  "  or  "  How  's  your  uncle  now  ?  " 
Impelled  by  feelings  in  their  nature  kind, 
But  slightly  weak,  and  somewhat  undefined, 
Rush  at  each  other,  make  a  sudden  stand, 
Begin  to  talk,  expatiate,  and  expand  ; 


Each  looks  quite  radiant,  seems  extremely  struck, 
Their  meeting  so  was  such  a  piece  of  luck  ; 
Each  thinks  the  other  thinks  he  's  greatly  pleased 
To  screw  the  vice  in  which  they  both  are  squeezed  ; 
So  there  they  talk,  in  dust,  or  mud,  or  snow, 
Both  bored  to  death,  and  both  afraid  to  go  ! 

Your  hat  once  lifted,  do  not  hang  your  fire, 
Nor,  like  slow  Ajax,  fighting  still,  retire  ; 
When  your  old  castor  on  your  crown  you  clap, 
Go  off;  you  've  mounted  your  percussion  cap ! 

Some  words  on  LANGUAGE  may  be  well  applied, 
And  take  them  kindly,  though  they  touch  your  pride  ; 
"Words  lead  to  things  ;  a  scale  is  more  precise,  — 
Coarse  speech,  bad  grammar,  swearing,  drinking,  vice 

Our  cold  Northeaster's  icy  fetter  clips 
The  native  freedom  of  the  Saxon  lips  ; 
See  the  brown  peasant  of  the  plastic  South, 
How  all  his  passions  play  about  his  mouth  ! 
With  us,  the  feature  that  transmits  the  soul, 
A  frozen,  passive,  palsied  breathing-hole. 
The  crampy  shackles  of  the  ploughboy's  walk 
Tie  the  small  muscles  when  he  strives  to  talk ; 
Not  all  the  pumice  of  the  polished  town 
Can  smooth  this  roughness  of  the  barnyard  down  ; 
Rich,  honored,  titled,  he  betrays  his  race 
By  this  one  mark,  —  he  's  awkward  in  the  face  ;  — 
Nature's  rude  impress,  long  before  he  knew 
The  sunny  street  that  holds  the  sifted  few. 


22 


It  can't  be  helped,  though  if  we're  taken  young, 
We  gain  some  freedom  of  the  lips  and  tongue  ; 
But  school  and  college  often  try  in  vain 
To  break  the  padlock  of  our  boyhood's  chain ; 
One  stubborn  word  will  prove  this  axiom  true ; 
No  late-caught  rustic  can  enunciate  view. 

A  few  brief  stanzas  may  be  well  employed 
To  speak  of  errors  we  can  all  avoid. 

Learning  condemns  beyond  the  reach  of  hope 
The  careless  churl  that  speaks  of  soap  for  soap  ; 
Her  edict  exiles  from  her  fair  abode 
The  clownish  voice  that  utters  road  for  road  ; 
Less  stern  to  him  who  calls  his  coat  a  coat, 
And  steers  his  boat,  believing  it  a  boat, 
She  pardoned  one,  our  classic  city's  boast, 
Who  said,  at  Cambridge,  most  instead  of  most, 
But  knit  her  brows  and  stamped  her  angry  foot 
To  hear  a  Teacher  call  a  r5ot  a  root. 

Once  more ;  speak  clearly,  if  you  speak  at  all  ; 
Carve  every  word  before  you  let  it  fall ; 
Don't,  like  a  lecturer  or  dramatic  star, 
Try  over  hard  to  roll  the  British  R,  ; 
Do  put  your  accents  in  the  proper  spot ; 
Don't, — let  me  beg  you,  —  don't  say  "  How  ?  "  for  "  What  ?  " 
And,  when  you  stick  on  conversation's  burs, 
Don't  strew  your  pathway  with  those  dreadful  urs. 

From  little  matters  let  us  pass  to  less, 
And  lightly  touch  the  mysteries  of  DRESS  ; 


The  outward  forms  the  inner  man  reveal,  — 
We  guess  the  pulp  before  we  cut  the  peel. 

I  leave  the  broadcloth,  —  coats  and  all  the  rest,  — 
The  dangerous  waistcoat,  called  by  cockneys  "  vest,3 
The  things  named  "  pants  "  in  certain  documents, 
A  word  not  made  for  gentlemen,  but  "  gents  "  ; 
One  single  precept  might  the  whole  condense  : 
Be  sure  your  tailor  is  a  man  of  sense  : 
But  add  a  little  care,  a  decent  pride, 
And  always  err  upon  the  sober  side. 

Three  pairs  of  boots  one  pair  of  feet  demands, 
If  polished  daily  by  the  owner's  hands ; 
If  the  dark  menial's  visit  save  from  this, 
Have  twice  the  number,  for  he  '11  sometimes  miss. 
One  pair  for  critics  of  the  nicer  sex, 
Close  in  the  instep's  clinging  circumflex, 
Long,  narrow,  light ;  the  Gallic  boot  of  love, 
A  kind  of  cross  between  a  boot  and  glove. 
But  not  to  tread  on  everlasting  thorns 
And  sow  in  suffering  what  is  reaped  in  corns, 
Compact,  but  easy,  strong,  substantial,  square, 
Let  native  art  compile  the  medium  pair. 
The  third  remains,  and  let  your  tasteful  skill 
Here  show  some  relics  of  affection  still ; 
Let  no  stiff  cowhide,  reeking  from  the  tan, 
No  rough  caoutchouc,  no  deformed  brogan, 
Disgrace  the  tapering  outline  of  your  feet, 
Though  yellow  torrents  gurgle  through  the  street ; 


24 

But  the  patched  calfskin  arm  against  the  flood 
In  neat,  light  shoes,  impervious  to  the  mud. 

Wear  seemly  gloves  ;  not  black,  nor  yet  too  light, 
And  least  of  all  the  pair  that  once  was  white  ; 
Let  the  dead  party  where  you  told  your  loves 
Bury  in  peace  its  dead  bouquets  and  gloves  ; 
Shave  like  the  goat,  if  so  your  fancy  bids, 
But  be  a  parent,  —  don't  neglect  your  kids. 

Have  a  good  hat ;  the  secret  of  your  looks 
Lives  with  the  beaver  in  Canadian  brooks ; 
Virtue  may  flourish  in  an  old  cravat, 
But  man  and  nature  scorn  the  shocking  hat. 
Does  beauty  slight  you  from  her  bright  abodes  ? 
Like  old  Apollo,  you  must  take  to  Rhoades, 
Mount  the  new  castor,  —  ice  itself  will  melt ; 
Boots,  gloves  may  fail ;  the  hat  is  always  felt ! 

Be  shy  of  breastpins ;  plain,  well-ironed  white, 
With  small  pearl  buttons,  —  two  of  them  in  sight,  — 
Is  always  genuine,  while  your  gems  may  pass, 
Though  real  diamonds,  for  ignoble  glass. 
But  spurn  those  paltry  cis- Atlantic  lies, 
That  round  his  breast  the  shabby  rustic  ties  ; 
Breathe  not  the  name,  profaned  to  hallow  things 
The  indignant  laundress  blushes  when  she  brings  ! 


Our  freeborn  race,  averse  to  every  check, 
Has  tossed  the  yoke  of  E  urope  from  its  neck  ; 
From  the  green  prairie,  to  the  sea-girt  town, 
The  whole  wide  nation  turns  its  collars  down. 

The  stately  neck  is  manhood's  manliest  part ; 
It  takes  the  life-blood  freshest  from  the  heart ; 
With  short,  curled  ringlets  close  around  it  spread, 
How  light  and  strong  it  lifts  the  Grecian  head  ! 
Thine,  fair  Erectheus  of  Minerva's  wall ;  — 
Or  thine,  young  athlete  of  the  Louvre's  hall, 
Smooth  as  the  pillar  flashing  in  the  sun 
That  filled  the  arena  where  thy  wreaths  were  won, 
Firm  as  the  band  that  clasps  the  antlered  spoil 
Strained  in  the  winding  anaconda's  coil ! 

I  spare  the  contrast ;  it  were  only  kind 
To  be  a  little,  nay,  intensely  blind  : 
Choose  for  yourself :  I  know  it  cuts  your  ear  ; 
I  know  the  points  will  sometimes  interfere  ; 
I  know  that  often,  like  the  filial  John, 
Whom  sleep  surprised  with  half  his  drapery  on, 
You  show  your  features  to  the  astonished  town 
With  one  side  standing  and  the  other  down  ;  — 
But  O  my  friend  !  my  favorite  fellow-man  ! 
If  Nature  made  you  on  her  modern  plan, 
Sooner  than  wander  with  your  windpipe  bare,  — 
The  fruit  of  Eden  ripening  in  the  air,  — 
With  that  lean  head-stalk,  that  protruding  chin, 
Wear  standing  collars,  were  they  made  of  tin  ! 
4 


26 


And  have  a  neck-cloth,  —  by  the  throat  of  Jove  ! 
Cut  from  the  funnel  of  a  rusty  stove  ! 

The  long-drawn  lesson  narrows  to  its  close, 
Chill,  slender,  slow,  the  dwindled  current  flows ; 
Tired  of  the  ripples  on  its  feeble  springs, 
Once  more  the  Muse  unfolds  her  upward  wings. 

Land  of  my  birth,  with  this  unhallowed  tongue, 
Thy  hopes,  thy  dangers,  I  perchance  had  sung  ; 
But  who  shall  sing,  in  brutal  disregard 
Of  all  the  essentials  of  the  "  native  bard  "  ? 

Lake,  sea,  shore,  prairie,  forest,  mountain,  fall, 
His  eye  omnivorous  must  devour  them  all ; 
The  tallest  summits  and  the  broadest  tides 
His  foot  must  compass  with  its  giant  strides, 
Where  Ocean  thunders,  where  Missouri  rolls, 
And  tread  at  once  the  tropics  and  the  poles  ; 
His  food  all  forms  of  earth,  fire,  water,  air, 
His  home  all  space,  his  birth-place  everywhere. 

Some  grave  compatriot,  having  seen  perhaps 
The  pictured  page  that  goes  in  Worcester's  Maps, 
And  read  in  earnest  what  was  said  in  jest, 
"Who  sells  fat  oxen"  —  please  to  add  the  rest, — 
Sprung  the  odd  notion  that  the  poet's  dreams 
Grow  in  the  ratio  of  his  hills  and  streams, 
And  hence  insisted  that  the  aforesaid  "bard," 
Pink  of  the  future,  —  fancy's  pattern-card,  — 


The  babe  of  Nature  in  the  "  giant  West," 
Must  be  of  course  her  biggest  and  her  best. 

But,  were  it  true  that  nature's  fostering  sun 
Saves  all  its  daylight  for  that  favorite  one, 
If  for  his  forehead  every  wreath  she  means, 
And  we,  poor  children,  must  not  touch  the  greens ; 
Since  rocks  and  rivers  cannot  take  the  road 
To  seek  the  elected  in  his  own  abode, 
Some  voice  must  answer  for  her  precious  heir, 
One  solemn  question ;  Who  shall  pay  his  fare  ? 

O  when  at  length  the  expected  bard  shall  come, 
Land  of  our  pride,  to  strike  thine  echoes  dumb, 
(And  many  a  voice  exclaims  in  prose  and  rhyme 
It 's  getting  late,  and  he 's  behind  his  time,) 
When  all  thy  mountains  clap  their  hands  in  joy, 
And  all  thy  cataracts  thunder  "  That 's  the  boy,"  — 
Say  if  with  him  the  reign  of  song  shall  end, 
And  Heaven  declare  its  final  dividend  ? 

Be  calm,  dear  brother  !  whose  impassioned  strain 
Comes  from  an  alley  watered  by  a  drain ; 
The  little  Mincio,  dribbling  to  the  Po, 
Beats  all  the  epics  of  the  Hoang  Ho  ; 
If  loved  in  earnest  by  the  tuneful  maid, 
Don't  mind  their  nonsense,  —  never  be  afraid  ! 

The  nurse  of  poets  feeds  her  winged  brood 
By  common  firesides,  on  familiar  food ; 


28 


In  a  low  hamlet,  by  a  narrow  stream, 

Where  bovine  rustics  used  to  doze  and  dream, 

She  filled  young  William's  fiery  fancy  full, 

While  old  John  Shakspeare  talked  of  beeves  and  wool  I 

No  Alpine  needle,  with  its  climbing  spire, 
Brings  down  for  mortals  the  Promethean  fire, 
If  careless  nature  have  forgot  to  frame 
An  altar,  worthy  of  the  sacred  flame. 

Unblest  by  any  save  the  goat-herd's  lines, 
Mont  Blanc  rose  soaring  through  his  "  sea  of  pines"  ; 
In  vain  the  Arve  and  Arveiron  dash, 
No  hymn  salutes  them  but  the  Ranz  des  Vaches, 
Till  lazy  Coleridge,  by  the  morning's  light, 
Gazed  for  a  moment  on  the  fields  of  white, 
And  lo,  the  glaciers  found  at  length  a  tongue, 
Mont  Blanc  was  vocal,  and  Chamouni  sung  ! 

Children  of  wealth  or  want,  to  each  is  given 
One  spot  of  green,  and  all  the  blue  of  heaven ! 
Enough,  if  these  their  outward  shows  impart ; 
The  rest  is  thine,  —  the  scenery  of  the  heart. 

If  passion's  hectic  in  thy  stanzas  glow, 
Thy  heart's  best  life-blood  ebbing  as  they  flow, 
If  with  thy  verse  thy  strength  and  bloom  distil, 
Drained  by  the  pulses  of  the  fevered  thrill ; 
If  sound's  sweet  effluence  polarize  thy  brain, 
And  thoughts  turn  crystals  in  thy  fluid  strain,  — 
Nor  rolling  ocean,  nor  the  prairie's  bloom, 
Nor  streaming  cliffs,  nor  rayless  cavern's  gloom, 


Need'st  thou,  young  poet,  to  inform  thy  line  ; 
Thy  own  broad  signet  stamps  thy  song  divine  ! 

Let  others  gaze  where  silvery  streams  are  rolled, 
And  chase  the  rainbow  for  its  cup  of  gold  ; 
To  thee  all  landscapes  wear  a  heavenly  dye, 
Changed  in  the  glance  of  thy  prismatic  eye ; 
Nature  evoked  thee  in  sublimer  throes, 
For  thee  her  inmost  Arethusa  flows,  — 
The  mighty  mother's  living  depths  are  stirred, — 
Thou  art  the  starred  Osiris  of  the  herd  ! 

A  few  brief  lines  ;  they  touch  on  solemn  chords, 
And  hearts  may  leap  to  hear  their  honest  words  ; 
Yet,  ere  the  jarring  bugle  blast  is  blown, 
The  softer  lyre  shall  breathe  its  soothing  tone. 

New  England  !  proudly  may  thy  children  claim 
Their  ancient  birthright  by  its  humblest  name  ! 
Cold  are  thy  skies,  but,  ever  fresh  and  clear, 
No  rank  malaria  stains  thine  atmosphere  ; 
No  fungous  weeds  invade  thy  scanty  soil 
Scarred  by  the  ploughshares  of  unslumbering  toil. 
Long  may  the  doctrines  by  thy  sages  taught, 
Raised  from  the  quarries  where  their  sires  have  wrought, 
Be  like  the  granite  of  thy  rock-ribbed  land,  — 
As  slow  to  rear,  as  obdurate  to  stand  ; 
And  as  the  ice,  that  leaves  thy  crystal  mine, 
Chills  the  fierce  alcohol  in  the  Creole's  wine, 
So  may  the  doctrines  of  thy  sober  school 
Keep  the  hot  theories  of  thy  neighbors  cool ! 


30 


If  ever,  trampling  on  her  ancient  path, 
Cankered  by  treachery,  or  inflamed  by  wrath, 
With  smooth  "  Resolves,"  or  with  discordant  cries, 
The  mad  Briareus  of  disunion  rise, 
Chiefs  of  New  England  !  by  your  sires'  renown, 
Dash  the  red  torches  of  the  rebel  down  ! 
Flood  his  black  hearth-stone  till  its  flames  expire, 
Though  your  old  Sachem  fanned  his  council-fire  ! 

But  if  at  last,  —  her  fading  cycle  run,  — 
The  tongue  must  forfeit  what  the  arm  has  won, 
Then  rise,  wild  Ocean  !  roll  thy  surging  shock 
Full  on  old  Plymouth's  desecrated  rock  ! 
Scale  the  proud  shaft  degenerate  hands  have  hewn, 
Where  bleeding  Valor  stained  the  flowers  of  June  ! 
Sweep  in  one  tide  her  spires  and  turrets  down, 
And  howl  her  dirge  above  Monadnock's  crown  ! 

List  not  the  tale  ;  the  Pilgrim's  ancient  shore, 
Though  strewn  with  weeds,  is  granite  at  the  core  ; 
O  rather  trust  that  He  who  made  her  free 
Will  keep  her  true,  as  long  as  faith  shall  be  ! 

Farewell !  yet,  lingering  through  the  destined  hour, 
Leave,  sweet  Enchantress,  one  memorial  flower  ! 

An  Angel,  floating  o'er  the  waste  of  snow 
That  clad  our  western  desert  long  ago, 
(The  same  fair  spirit,  who,  unseen  by  day, 
Shone  as  a  star  along  the  Mayflower's  way,) 


31 


Sent,  the  first  herald  of  the  Heavenly  plan, 
To  choose  on  earth  a  resting-place  for  man,  — 
Tired  with  his  flight  along  the  unvaried  field, 
Turned  to  soar  upwards,  when  his  glance  revealed 
A  calm,  bright  bay,  enclosed  in  rocky  bounds, 
And  at  its  entrance  stood  three  sister  mounds. 

The  Angel  spake  :  This  threefold  hill  shall  be  (4> 
The  home  of  Arts,  the  nurse  of  Liberty  ! 
One  stately  summit  from  its  shaft  shall  pour 
Its  deep-red  blaze,  along  the  darkened  shore  ; 
Emblem  of  thoughts,  that,  kindling  far  and  wide, 
In  danger's  night  shall  be  a  Nation's  guide. 
One  swelling  crest  the  citadel  shall  crown, 
Its  slanted  bastions  black  with  battle's  frown, 
And  bid  the  sons  that  tread  its  scowling  heights 
Bare  their  strong  arms  for  man  and  all  his  rights  ! 
One  silent  steep  along  the  northern  wave 
Shall  hold  the  patriarch's  and  the  hero's  grave  ; 
When  fades  the  torch,  when  o'er  the  peaceful  scene 
The  embattled  fortress  smiles  in  living  green, 
The  cross  of  Faith,  the  anchor  staff  of  Hope, 
Shall  stand  eternal  on  its  grassy  slope  ; 
There  through  all  time  shall  faithful  Memory  tell : 
"  Here  Virtue  toiled,  and  Patriot  Valor  fell ; 
"  Thy  free,  proud  fathers  slumber  at  thy  side, 
"  Live  as  they  lived,  or  perish  as  they  died  !  " 


NOTES. 


(1)  Page  7.     Oitj  7ieg  (pvlkav  ye*^,  loi-tfie  tied 

Iliad,  VI.  146. 

Wesley  quotes  this  line  in  his  account  of  his  early  doubts  and  perplexi 
ties.     See  Southey's  Life  of  Wesley,  Vol.  II.  p.  185. 

(2)  Page  12.     The  churches  referred  to  in  the  lines  which  follow  are 

1.  "King's  Chapel,"  the  foundation  of  which  was  laid  by  Governor 
Shirley,  in  1749. 

2.  The  church  in  Brattle  Square,  consecrated  in  1773.     The  comple 
tion  of  this  edifice,  the  design  of  which  included  a  spire,  was  prevented 
by  the  troubles  of  the  Revolution,  and  its  plain,  square  tower  presents 
nothing  more  attractive  than  a  massive  simplicity.     In  the  front  of  this 
tower  is  still  seen,  half  imbedded  in  the  brick-  work,  a  cannon-ball,  which 
was  thrown  from  the  American  fortifications  at  Cambridge,  during  the 
bombardment  of  the  city,  then  occupied  by  the  British  troops. 

3.  The  "  Old  South,"  first  occupied  for  public  worship  in  1730. 

4.  Park  Street  Church,  built  in  1809,  the  tall,  white  steeple  of  which  is 
the  most  conspicuous  of  all  the  Boston  spires. 

5.  Christ  Church,  opened  for  public  worship  in  1723,  and  containing  a 
set  of  eight  bells,  the  only  chime  in  Boston. 

(3)  Page  15.     For  the  propriety  of  the  term  "Celtic  blackness,"  see 
Lawrence's  Lectures,  (Salem,  1828,)  pp.  452,  453.     But  the  ancient  Celts 
appear  to  have  been  a  xanthous,  or  fair-haired  race.     See  PricharcTs  Nat. 
Hist,  of  Man,  (London,  1843,)  pp.  183,  193,  196. 

(4)  Page  31.     The  name  first  given  by  the  English  to  Boston  was  TRI- 
MOUNTAIN.     The  three  hills  upon  and  around  which  the  city  is  built  are 
Beacon  Hill,  Fort  Hill,  and  Copp's  Hill. 

In  the  early  records  of  the  Colony,  it  is  mentioned  under  date  of  May 
Cth,  1635,  that  "  A  BEACON  is  to  be  set  on  the  Sentry  hill,  at  Boston,  to 
give  notice  to  the  country  of  any  danger  ;  to  be  guarded  by  one  man  sta 
tioned  near,  and  fired  as  occasion  may  be."  The  last  Beacon  was  blown 
down  in  1789. 

The  eastern  side  of  Fort  Hill  was  formerly  "  a  ragged  cliff,  that  seemed 
•placed  by  nature  in  front  of  the  entrance  to  the  harbor  for  the  purposes 
of  defence,  to  which  it  was  very  soon  applied,  and  from  which  it  obtained 
its  present  name."  Its  summit  is  now  a  beautiful  green  enclosure. 

Copp's  Hill  was  used  as  a  burial-ground  from  a  very  early  period. 
The  part  of  it  employed  for  this  purpose  slopes  towards  the  water  upon 
the  northern  side.  From  its  many  interesting  records  of  the  dead  1  select 
the  following,  which  may  serve  to  show  what  kind  of  dust  it  holds. 

"Here  lies  buried  in  a 

Stone  Grave  10  feet  deep, 

Capt  DANIEL  MALCOM  Merch1 

who  departed  this  Life 

October  23d,  1769, 

Aged  44  years. 
a  true  son  ot  Liberty. 
'    a  Friend  to  the   Puhlick, 
an  Enemy  to  oppression, 
and  one  of  the  foremost 
in  opposing  the  Revenue  Acts 
on  Amen. 

The  gravestone  from  which  I  copied  this  inscription  is  bruised  and 
splintered  by  the  bullets  of  the  British  soldiers. 


